


A Crown of Kisses

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (no graphic depictions of illness), Carrying, Comfort, Cuddles, Fluff, HIV/AIDS, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of Death, No Dialogue, and the beauty that is The Husbands, implied disordered eating, the peace that is Garden Lodge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: Then, arms are wrapping around his neck, begging to be closer and entirely ensconced, and Jim picks up the lithe man from the piano bench, paper falling abandoned to the floor, carries him across the room and then settles on the chaise in the corner. Wrapped in each other's arms, rain pelting the window, they are surrounded by antiques collected with love, with care, with pleasure.They cuddle, Freddie is carried by Jim, they cuddle some more.
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 27
Kudos: 41





	A Crown of Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freddieofhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/gifts).



> Whilst having a conversation with dear FreddieofHearts, we were singing the praises of The Very Sweet Husbands (that's an official hymn by the way, no arguments), and she said, "Jim carries Freddie into the sitting room...They cuddle... Jim carries Freddie into the dining room, feeds him a few mouthfuls... carries him back to the sofa... more cuddling" and, of course I said, "I'm going to have to write that now."
> 
> And so I did. 
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy this gift and I thank you for (all) the inspiration! (And the enlightening conversations) x
> 
> Also, this piece features no dialogue, as I had the idea and wanted to challenge myself a bit. I must say, I quite like the result. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta BisexualRoger for putting up with my 5 a.m. ramblings, because I started writing this, couldn't stop, and then couldn't sleep. Also, many thanks for actual beta-y things and for your compliments. J'adore, mon ami. 
> 
> And to my beautiful readers: I think these forward addresses get longer every time... but I do hope you enjoy this little piece of (mostly) fluff!

_A crown of kisses to the queen of dreams._  
– In a letter from Albert Camus to Maria Casarus

-

This is a man who buys an ornate, antique sofa—in a house of badly mannered cats, no less (don’t tell him, though, he’ll have your head!)—and then curls up on it with an ugly, multi-coloured blanket he must have had for fifteen years. It’s horribly ratty, has been wrapped around this now frail body through ups and downs: tears wiped on corners, snot blown in folds, has narrowly avoided unseemly stains—from tea, from champagne, from _other_ things. This, and a man of royalty nearly slain, but beautiful, resting upon it.

Perhaps he is asleep. Most likely worn out from dragging himself, working himself in what must already be hell. Nevermind what comes next. There's too much good that came before to dwell with fret on the afterlife.

A sniffle, a cough, a fit. Lurching over the cushions, gasping for air, him clutching your hand. You no longer observe in peace, trying to remember the line of his feather-soft hair. You are now crouched beside him, shouting for a glass of water—he has been neglectful of keeping one beside him for such moments—soothing him with words and stroking his back with light touches, a movement now done without a worry of startling him. You know just how to do it after the half-handful of years, so that he knows it's _you_ and no one else.

-

Loud laughter, followed by an ill-placed comment. Minor insult, minor jab—the sort you cannot point out, because it’s easily dismissed as a joke. It isn't. It’s cruelty and he’s powerless to speak against it. He can, however, settle the man it was aimed at. Or try, that is, because this man never settles. Not in the sense of restlessness—though goodness knows that’s true enough, five minutes of stillness and then he’s fiddling with something or has struck upon another thought, something to share with the room or something to rush off and write down, a scrap of brilliance later to be stored away in a little box—no, not in the sense of restlessness, but in the sense of flight. Being on the verge of running. Running out of the room, running out of the house, running out of your life. Running from himself, or from his past, or from his present, or somehow, from his future.

Now, he can gather the man into his lap, because such is acceptable in present company though strangely frowned upon—they want fun and parties, and this is a threat, of a sort, to that life—and settle an arm around his waist. Maybe it doesn't help, maybe it’s only security for his mind as he tries to impart through touch: you are safe, you are secure, you are the love of my life.

-

He thinks later, attendant to a deathbed: the man was never still. What was it he needed such distraction from? What was it he fucked away into not being, into obscurity, into ancient myth? He ran from everybody but you—he sent you away, yes, but never ran. Would have outrun death, if such were possible, for you.

-

A rainy day brings him inside from the garden—he can't keep a cigarette lit and the packet will be soon soaked through—and the quiet, calm feeling of the day has found Freddie musing by himself in the Japanese room.

He finds him in his second favourite kimono, sitting at the piano, bent over where he’s scribbling away on a piece of paper. There's an equal chance of him writing music and drawing something more beautiful than what hangs on the walls. Either way, there is no danger in disturbing him—this is not the scene of intense work and focus—so he goes right over and kisses the head of the darling man he adores. The head comes up then; a soft, warm look in his eyes, pleading to be kissed properly—with love and reverence and adoration.

Then, arms are wrapping around his neck, begging to be closer and entirely ensconced, and Jim picks up the lithe man from the piano bench, paper falling abandoned to the floor, carries him across the room and then settles on the chaise in the corner. Wrapped in each other's arms, rain pelting the window, they are surrounded by antiques collected with love, with care, with pleasure. Freddie imagines those are the most valuable things in this room, but Jim knows differently. He knows that the man in his arms surpasses anything he could ever find in an auction house or in faraway lands. Here is a man to be handled with love, with care, with pleasure—a spirit far more valuable than the finest woven silk.

Freddie sighs and presses closer. He tightens his arms around the man and buries his face in the thick hair that smells of bergamot and rosewood.

-

There is a bowl of chopped, exotic fruit that they are trying to work through. He knows that _before_ the fruit would be passed out—a piece to Phoebe, a piece to Joe, several to him, and then the rest would be slowly eaten over the course of a conversation—but _now_ , that is strictly forbidden. Only, Freddie is not to be stopped. He keeps handing him the small pieces of kiwi he knows Jim likes and then a piece of mango that he himself likes, but wants to share with Jim. Is it to share a beloved thing or a way to avoid swallowing?

He coaxes it back towards Freddie with a chuckle, as if humouring a wayward pet, trying to get it to eat a treat. The man takes it, eats half of it, abandons the rest to the plate. He’s tired, just from this farce. Blended then? It’s not to go to waste. A rule you wouldn't think existed in a house worth millions, but that's Freddie for you.

He hands him the piece of abandoned fruit again, even though it's a losing battle. He puts it down. In the interim, his arm stays around the man's shoulders, head pressed close to his, kisses peppered through his hair, on his temple, over and over and over. Battles are fought in rounds after all.

A kiss for a bite?

A kiss for a kiss.

-

Nights in, cuddled on the sofa, under his multi-coloured blanket. It has survived to a time of bliss. Bliss and a beloved, finally. Jim’s arms are around him, holding him close, exhaled breaths slightly disturbing his hair. The television is on, turned down to a murmur and fresh tea is laid on the table. Phoebe is resting in the arm chair, poor foot put up, bothered by gout. Cats are slinking under the table, near the bottom of the couch. One contemplates joining them on the sofa, head cocked and eyes peering. Something in the eyes suggests she knows she's looking at love, but that’s a fanciful thought. So near the creatures are to you though, at times it seems comprehension is plausible. The cat pads away, going to curl up in the many spots of recluse in the grand house.

Grand, but warm. Warm and full of love. He melts back into Jim’s arms.

A few seconds pass and then a minute. A mew is all the warning he gets before a cat has jumped up by his feet, fur brushing his toes, and then hard paws padding along his legs. Only two—it must be walking half on Jim as well, then, entwined as they are. The cat settles between them, insistent on being curled in the warmth there, and Freddie glances over his shoulder. It’s Miko, come to join the cuddle. Come join your mummy and father, won't you? Yes, little one, stay there.

_Yes, little one, stay here in his arms. You don't have to fear a changing of tides. Rest your eyes and let your soul drift, little one._

Sometime later, he blinks wearily up into the face of his beloved. Jim has gathered him in his arms, picked him up, is carrying him to bed. It must be late. A slight jostling up the stairs, then he catches a glimpse of the scene in the mirrored corridor. His man, his husband, with a small smile half hidden by a moustache, holding him in his arms as if this little action is a pleasure. The very image of care and love.

The bed is soft, a whisper of sheets and blankets, and then he’s wrapped up in strong arms once again. A kiss on his temple, a kiss on his neck.

Goodnight, sleep tight.

You won't be alone in the morn.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, thoughts, your own ramblings, perhaps? All is welcome and adored!


End file.
